


A Royal Embrace

by doubledecks



Category: Tintin - All Media Types
Genre: Consensual, Frottage, Gentleness, Kindness, M/M, Romantic Friendship, Royalty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-11
Updated: 2019-03-11
Packaged: 2019-11-15 15:25:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18075986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doubledecks/pseuds/doubledecks
Summary: Tintin bids King Muskar farewell one last time before leaving Syldavia. Whether or not he'll make his train is uncertain.





	A Royal Embrace

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, all! I’ve been sitting on this fic for quite a while and I figure it’s been long enough since I’ve posted some writing. I hope it holds you over while you wait for updates on my other works.
> 
> This can be read as a prequel to _Tintin and Le Beau Monde_ , as Tintin makes an allusion to this event in that story. 
> 
> Kings have proven to be pretty shitty irl, but Muskar’s a unicorn. We’re gonna shamelessly engage in some king kink today. Or as I like to call it, “kingk”.
> 
> Enjoy!

Tintin feels smaller now that the crowds have gone. Knighted or not, he’s still a civilian, and having been left to wander the halls of the castle by himself, he feels the sentiment magnified.

 

He isn’t entirely alone, of course. There are attendants passing by with swift, silent footsteps; mediaries scattered to the far corners of each chamber discussing state matters in low voices. They aren’t whispering, but they speak so solemnly their words are barely audible even to Tintin’s trained hearing. Unrest may have shaken the Royal Palace to its very core, but in the aftermath of all the turmoil, the place has taken on the aspect of a monastery. Even Milou appears to have been subdued by the restored tranquility, having found a spot to snooze beneath an embroidered bench in the hall.

 

The King’s door is open.

 

Tintin hesitates as he approaches. Kings had two doors, so he thought - tall, embellished doors that reached high to the ceiling and which remained firmly closed but for the most prestigious visitors: a veritable gate to another world, flanked by round of disciplined sentinels who guarded it day and night.

 

This is no such spectacle. It could easily be any door, if not for the fact that Tintin can see the King sitting at a desk in the corner, smoking a cigarette and scrawling something on a piece of paper.

 

He still expects to meet some kind of resistance on his way in - perhaps Muskar has guards posted just inside the threshold - but there is none, and suddenly Tintin finds himself in what appears to be the King’s private office without anything to say in particular.

 

Muskar looks up.

 

“Come in!” he summons with a smile. It’s a smile far too radiant for a monarch, but King Muskar is still a very young monarch. And then, of course, there is the relief he must be feeling at having reclaimed his dominion. . .

 

This leaves Tintin puzzled. Any other leader would be quite paranoid after what had almost come to pass. Any other leader would be bolstering their security, scouring their cabinet for agents, mobilizing patrols to fortify their grounds. . . and yet King Muskar remains peacefully unguarded in his study with a window open wide to the courtyard below, a cool Mediterranean breeze gently tossing about the sheer white curtain. There are no soldiers in the plaza. The public moves freely in and out of the square, undisturbed.

 

“I just - I wanted to say goodbye once more,” Tintin says softly. He is unsure if he should bow or quite what he should do. Something about the whole ordeal of the past few days seems to request humility of both of them, and the wind is picking up a little outside, the courtyard darkening slightly with overcast and then breaking into a radiance more golden than before.

 

“And when are you bounden to go?” Muskar asks, as if Tintin’s schedule is no less important than his own. Even then, he doesn’t seem particularly pressed. His regalia hangs on the back of his chair like a mere sack coat; he has pared down to his vest and evening shirt, obviously settling in for an evening of stationary duties.

 

“Five o’clock,” Tintin says. “Well - the train leaves at seven-thirty, but I figure it’s best to be cautious, especially after all this excitement.”

 

“Yes,” Muskar muses, putting down his pen. “I suppose it is.”

 

He smiles at Tintin again. It’s a benevolent smile that anchors Tintin to where he stands with its kindness, and as the moment unfurls, it becomes painfully evident neither quite want to leave the other’s company just yet.

 

“Come and sit for a moment - I would be pleased to drive you to the station,” the King offers.

 

Tintin feels a prickle of seasoned anxiety. “Are you mad? _”_ he laughs, and then, realizing he may have just spoken far too informally, clears his throat. Muskar shakes with a stifled chuckle. 

 

“That is to say -” Tintin amends. “I. . . don’t think it’s wise for you to leave the palace quite so soon.”

 

The King falls into contemplative silence. He sits in thought for a while, and just about the time Tintin begins to worry he’s offended him, he speaks.

 

“My father said the same thing when I was fifteen,” he says. “God rest his soul. I was an impossible youth; I went out anyway. And do you know what happened?”

 

“What was that, your highness?”

 

“I fell in love with my people.”

 

Another breeze crosses the room, warmer than the last. Tintin’s heart stills. 

 

He perfectly recognizes now why it is the king sits completely vulnerable in a room all by himself mere hours after nearly being deposed. Relying too closely on appointed aides and officers has proven disastrous - aside from the basic mandates of royal security Tintin is certain he will always have to endure, it is better for him to place his trust directly in his populace. To bare his neck to his own subjects; to beg their forgiveness by never closing his doors again.

 

Tintin finds himself gravitating closer to the King; sitting in the chair opposite, setting down his suitcase.

 

“I was never good at staying put either,” he confides.

 

The King smiles mischievously - but then looks wistful, and a bit sad. Brushing whatever he was thinking of aside, he puts out his cigarette in a little tray on his desk - silver and engraved with juniper branches, the tiny dish only has room for one stub - a flourish of smoke, woody and fragrant, catches Tintin’s nose and then dissipates in the spring air.

 

“Funny,” Muskar says, “that for all the hell we go through, men like us still want to embrace all life has to offer with open arms.”

 

“It’s got to be funny,” Tintin says, “it can’t be anything else.”

 

He isn’t sure where that came from, but there is an instant understanding between them. The King looks out onto the courtyard, his mouth winding into a wry little smirk.

 

“Oh-!” he utters abruptly, rising from his seat. “May I get you anything? A mineral water, perhaps?”

 

Tintin’s eyes widen. He has grown so comfortable in the past few minutes that it’s just now dawning on him he’s being waited upon by a sovereign - he’d like nothing more than to let this moment go uninterrupted, but his upbringing dictates otherwise.   
  
“Oh-! You mustn’t -” he stutters. “Please, let me -”

 

In his haste to accommodate Muskar before Muskar accommodates him, he bolts up without a thought and narrowly avoids ambushing him at the corner of the desk.

 

There is a start from both of them - a modest lowering of eyes, a round of timid laughter. And then suddenly the tips of Tintin’s ears begin to feel very hot.

 

“Please,” says Muskar.

 

Tintin almost jumps to feel a warm hand placed on the back of his neck - moving him back and forth a little, cradling him amicably.

 

“You saved my crown and my life,” Muskar says, looking directly into his eyes. “You deserve to relax. I will - let me do you the provision.”

 

He speaks as if the words “crown” and “life” are one and the same; as if “provision” is vastly insufficient for whatever Syldavian term he had in mind; as if Tintin is the only thing that exists in that instant. Another easy smile crosses his face - he really  _ is _ young, Tintin thinks; he has got to be six or seven years older than the journalist at the absolute most.

 

“Don’t feel obliged to stay,” Muskar reiterates quietly. “If you must go, I am sure we will see each other again.”

 

His fingers are softly toying with the coarse hairs at Tintin’s nape. 

 

The journalist’s ears are burning now, cherry-red he knows, and with near-debilitating shock he realizes that he wants very badly to kiss the King. 

 

One does not kiss a King. One is not even sure when - or how - one should kiss another man. Tintin is paralyzed by rite from all sides.

 

But he must do something.

 

Carefully, he takes up Muskar’s other hand in his. He brings it to his lips. And then he deposits a gentle kiss onto the King’s open palm.

 

Muskar swallows heavily.

 

“Of course it goes without saying,” he says, his voice quivering, “that I am also terribly in love with Belgium.”

 

Heavy-lidded, his eyes are cast down as he says this. When he looks back into Tintin’s, there is no question of his intent.

 

“I don’t. . . wish, to cause a scandal,” Tintin whispers, and he’s surprised that this is the only reservation he has about whatever is occurring between them. “The Queen -”

 

“- has her own fair share of companions,” Muskar confirms. “We keep no secrets from each another.”

 

It’s a startling thing to hear. It seems to go against everything Tintin has been lead to believe about royalty - but then, when he recalls some of the finer points of history that he knows. . . it really doesn’t.

 

Both of the King’s hands are cupping the sides of Tintin’s neck now, the tips of his thumbs ghosting along the reporter’s cheeks as if he’s made of porcelain. His handsome features are wracked with tenderness - hopeless and bittersweet, consumed with admiration.

 

The expression opens something vast in Tintin; a powerful bliss that speaks to him in vivid thoughts and pictures he has never before conjured. His blush spreads from his ears to his face, down to his throat and throughout his chest - down into the pit of his solitary wanting, into a place he’s so often disavowed. He feels he must test the waters one last time.

 

“Your highness,” he utters, “I fear I may disgrace myself if I indulge in your generosity any further.”

 

“It’s no disgrace,” the King imparts, “but I cannot keep that which does not want to be kept.”

 

He lifts his hands away, leaving the feather-soft ghost of his touch burning on Tintin’s cheeks, and for a brief moment, the journalist finds himself unable to move. 

 

Slowly, Tintin takes a few steps back. His fingers grope about until they find the edge of the door behind him, and then carefully, closes it.

 

“I’m at your disposal,” he says.

 

The King looks as if he was not prepared for this development. There’s a sudden frailty in his manner that seems at odds with his eminent distinction - an almost innocent joy couched in a vague sort of alarm. He drinks in the sight of Tintin as if he is some kind of exotic animal; one who could cause calamity if handled improperly, and which must be approached with tact.

 

Gathering his bearings, Muskar straightens himself to full height. He seems to drift across the room as he closes the distance between them, holding himself rigidly as if in ceremony. There is a renewed determination in his face, and Tintin senses in it a reflection of his own.

 

He presses a kiss to the corner of Tintin’s mouth. 

 

It is a calm, deep kiss - Tintin can feel the slight prickle of the King’s mustache, smell deeply his hair tonic. Just one kiss - and then Muskar draws back, pensive.

 

Before Tintin can determine what he should do next, his hands are already settling on the King’s waist, coaxing him closer. It’s an ill-behaved gesture, his mind screams, to take hold of a king like a dame, but Muskar is yielding permissively; even a little desperately. His hands clutch tighter at Tintin’s back, and his mouth is seeking Tintin’s out once again, and then all but turns into a mad scramble to feel and taste and find one another as quickly as possible.

 

Tintin lets out a short whimper, which the King silences with his fingertips; and then Muskar leads him by the hand to a chaise by a small, burnished ice box, all but their trousers deposited.

 

_ “Tell me what you want, Tintin,” _ he says.

 

_ “I don’t know what to want,” _ Tintin says, almost in despair. He’s wringing the cover of the chaise on either side of Muskar’s head in tight fistfuls, nearly threatening to tear the fabric from the stuffing.  _ “I know that I want you but I don’t know how.” _

 

“ _ An embrace, then - an embrace _ ,” Muskar replies.

 

He frees them both from their trousers and undergarments. Tintin can hear the wind picking up outside once again, watches the sun cast rainbows across the ceiling through the crystal on Muskar’s desk - and then there is suddenly the jolt of his cock against another cock, his hips against another’s, a soft hand surrounding them both.

 

_ “Yes-!” _ Tintin blurts, and Muskar claps a hand over his mouth. Tintin grasps his wrist but does not pull him away; only pushes against him anxiously, driving him further and further into the chaise. He’s never felt such bliss. Every bit of him is singing like the birds in the courtyard, shining like the sunlight cast across the walls.

 

Reluctantly the King’s hand slips away, pausing to fondle the arc of Tintin’s lip before settling on the reporter’s waist. Everything in Tintin wants to cry for joy as he’s handled closer and closer to ecstasy. He feels filthy - not as refuse, but as soil that breaks seed into leaf and brush into garden - and there is a weighted pit in him, dark and heavy, that thrives from the feeling of the King against him; which is demanding to be fed more. The whole of his body tingles with disbelief this is even happening as Muskar mouths and bites along his shoulder and he replies in kind. The two hug one another tightly as if this were not but simply horseplay, a small diversion from the daily toils of living, and Tintin feels growing a kinship he has never known in his life, a kinship he never knew existed.

 

He’s beginning to feel sore, and with that soreness comes a fresh wave of pleasure that feels wholly unlike the last. Tintin groans, tightening his grip on the chaise with his supporting hand even more, and the King shushes him again, gently, against his ear.

 

_ “I’m going to despoil your chair,” _ is all Tintin can choke out.

 

_ “Then despoil it, mejn löwn,” _ Muskar says, and there is the breeze again, and the sunlight, and the birds calling out in the linden tree outside, and it is happening. Tintin writhes upon the King as he spills out across him, dripping onto the upholstery beneath; sucking in a breath as the King follows, and he feels on top of the world - inexpressible.

 

All of that, in mere minutes. 

 

Quickly Tintin is up and scouting out his things, timidly gathering his coat about his still-standing cock. 

 

“Oh dear,” he frets.

 

“Are you alright?” the King asks, sitting up with a solemn look.

 

“Nothing,” Tintin answers to a question that wasn’t asked. A small chuckle escapes him and he kisses Muskar again, smitten. “I . . . I’ve never done that before. Never done - anything, like that.”

 

Muskar looks quite sunken. Tintin adds, “I fear I rather liked it too much.”

 

The cloud of confusion lifted, they share a smile. Tintin briskly tucks himself away and then half-crawls across the room, gracelessly shoving his sullied coat into his bag - he catches the King watching over his shoulder and they snicker again like school chums, no one to answer to but the afternoon and all the work that has yet to be done.

**Author's Note:**

> mejn löwn - roughly translates to “my love” in Syldavian, allegedly:  
> https://www.zompist.com/syldavian.html


End file.
